But who the worthless smile would share
That sheds its light alike on all.



TO A LADY WITH A WITHERED VIOLET.



THOUGH fate upon this faded flower
His withering hand has laid,
Its odour'd breath defies his power,
Its sweets are undecayed.

And thus, although thy warbled strains
No longer wildly thrill,
The memory of the song remains,
Its soul is with me still.



BRONX.



I SAT me down upon a green bank-side,
Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river,
Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide,
Like parting friends who linger while they sever;
Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready,